


carve your name (into my bedpost)

by carnival_papers



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Gender Issues, James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848) Wears a Dress, M/M, Marriage, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: James had worn Francis’ ring on his smallest finger for two months when Francis presented him with a second, equally unlikely gift. The package was simple: a plain brown box, unadorned but for an ivory ribbon tied in a neat bow and a cream-white gift tag bearing, in Francis’ careful script, the nameMrs. Crozier.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 33
Kudos: 69
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange Treats





	carve your name (into my bedpost)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [norvegiae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/gifts).



> A treat for [norvegiae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae) based on the prompt: _Canon era post rescue - pwp - tender slow loving sex. Francis calling James ‘Mrs crozier’ would be a bonus_.
> 
> So this kind of turned into a whole big thing that ended up only being tangentially related to this prompt, lmao. That said, I hope you will enjoy it. I had a really fun time writing it!
> 
> [I also made a very serious accompanying playlist for this fic!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1G9fYnnULsslVmIVzmeEc5?si=NHScUbuWRViWY6NQA57oGg)
> 
> **A note on James’ gender:**
> 
> I started out this fic with the intent of writing James as a cis man who happened to enjoy wearing dresses. However, as I wrote, I realized that for this James, that description is maybe not wholly accurate. I wanted to be careful not to textually write this James as trans, because—though, to use Dave Kajganich’s words, I have a queasy relationship with gender—I don’t believe that’s my story to tell, and at any rate I wouldn’t feel comfortable trying to tell it. That said, I think this James is very much at the beginning of his journey into gender fluidity, and while he currently thinks of himself as cis, that might well change in the future. I primarily wanted _Mrs. Crozier_ and the dress to be signifiers of the strength and commitment of Francis and James’ relationship, but it’s very possible they could also end up acting as conduits for James to examine his relationship to his own gender. To paraphrase Andrew Garfield, James simply has not yet explored that part of the garden, but the situation depicted in this fic can and perhaps should be read as the first tentative steps toward that exploration. In short, I tried to write with love, empathy, dignity, and respect for the trans experience, and I hope that is reflected in the story.

James had worn Francis’ ring on his smallest finger for two months when Francis presented him with a second, equally unlikely gift. The package was simple: a plain brown box, unadorned but for an ivory ribbon tied in a neat bow and a cream-white gift tag bearing, in Francis’ careful script, the name _Mrs. Crozier_. He had wanted, of course, to immediately tear into it, but Francis had stilled his hand, said, “Wait until I leave,” and James had harrumphed but assented.

They had not come to this title by any discussion; it had arisen naturally when Francis slipped his ring onto James’ finger and, on bent knee, asked James to marry him. Tears ran down James’ face, joyful tears, and, too choked to speak, he had pulled Francis into his arms and kissed him, over and over and over, until it seemed they had been doing nothing _but_ kissing and might well spend the rest of their lives doing the very same.

There on the chaise, their legs entangled, James finally said, “Married?” He tilted his hand in the light, the modest band glimmering.

“To ourselves, even if not to the world,” Francis said. He took James’ hand into his and brought it to his lips, kissing the knobbed knuckles and admiring the look of the ring on James’ fine long fingers.

James did not mind being doted on. It was a gift of its own to watch Francis watching him. He took note of precise details, committing them to memory as if planning to sketch them later: the sun on Francis’ soft, spun-gold hair, the rough but gentle brush of his fingertips, the look of his shoulders under his waistcoat, broad and strong enough to build a life upon.

“To the world,” James mused. They had shifted, Francis pulling James on top of him, James’ head rested against Francis’ chest, close enough to hear his heartbeat. “Is that what you dream of?”

He felt Francis smiling into his hair. “Perhaps,” Francis said.

“It _is_ a shame we won’t have a wedding,” James said. He lifted his head just so, just enough that Francis might kiss there at the place where his hair was beginning to grow thin. “The two of us before God and everyone.”

Francis made a low, satisfied noise at that. “Mr. and Mrs. Crozier,” Francis said dreamily, and the name burrowed itself under James’ skin, into his heart or his brain, and took up residence there.

“Mr. and Mrs. Crozier,” James repeated. Saying it himself had the effect of a magical spell—he felt transformed, then, by the power of Francis’ name, a name he wanted to be his own, a name that, in the days to come, he would treasure above all else, save the gift in the plain brown box with its ivory bow and cream-white tag.

And so, as much as any woman and man who had been wedded at an altar, they were married, and privately, James took a great deal of pleasure in being called _Mrs. Crozier_ , for it meant that he was Francis’ and Francis was his. Francis did not employ the term with any great frequency—James was far more often _James_ than he was _Mrs. Crozier_ —but this served to make each use of the name all the more special, a sort of renewal of their vows.

James did not think of what it might say about him, or what kind of man it might make him, that he enjoyed being called this. He supposed that probably there were many men like him, who, after a long and difficult life, desired the softer, sweeter things—silken stockings, lace and tuile, the scent of orange blossoms. At any rate, Francis didn’t mind, and when they were in bed together, curled into one another as if to stave off a chill, Francis called him _dear heart_ and _my love_ and _Mrs. Crozier_ , and with interlaced fingers, they imagined a wedding that could only be theirs in dreams: James’ mother in the pews, dead friends at their sides, James in a gown more elaborate and beautiful than Victoria’s.

Francis seemed to linger around the house for longer than strictly necessary, fussing with to-dos that had been put off for weeks and could, indeed, be put off for weeks more, but Francis treated them as if they were pressing needs, only giving a sly smile when James gently urged him to leave. He was meant to go to the bank and take care of some business in town, though he appeared rather more interested in watching James grow increasingly whiny as the day went on. Eventually, Francis relented, and he kissed James lightly, said, “Enjoy your gift, Mrs. Crozier,” and departed.

As soon as Francis had shut the door behind him, James withdrew into the bedroom and took up the package into his hands. It was heavier than he expected, the top of the box slightly convex under the elaborately tied bow, with its strange curves and twists reminding James of sailors’ knots. Lowering himself to the bed, he ran his fingertips over the ribbon, the satin cool against his skin. Almost hesitant, he gave the ribbon a gentle tug and the bow unraveled itself. He was careful not to bend the tag as he gathered up the length of ribbon, folding it precisely before depositing it and the tag in the drawer at his side of the bed.

James drew in a deep breath before finally removing the top from the box. The crisp tissue inside was lightly scented with lavender, and James let it fill his lungs, soothe his heart. In truth, he was feeling a pang of nervousness, a slight fear of whatever might be wrapped up in this paper. Francis’ gifts were always thoughtful, but this one felt special—Francis had certainly never gifted anything to _Mrs. Crozier_ before. He steeled himself, then unfolded the tissue.

Within the tissue was a mass of silk satin the precise color of pastry cream, patterned here and there with sprays of flowers. James gasped as he touched it, tracing the stem and leaves of one of these flowers as it approached a seam sewn into the fabric. Such a beautiful thing—it looked and felt very expensive, even to his rough hands and failing eyes. He lifted it with great concern, afraid he might snag the fabric on a stray nail or some other relic of their life here, the masculine disregard with which they sometimes treated the place.

Getting to his feet again, he turned to the bed and began to spread the fabric out over it. There was pleasure in this act, in the feeling of uncovering something exquisite that had been chosen just for him. And as he unfurled the fabric, he realized precisely what it was: a finely constructed woman’s gown, accented with lace and buttons and bows and net. To be specific, it was a wedding dress, not unlike those he and Francis had sometimes imagined together in one another’s arms.

There, with the dress spread out before him on the bed, James took it all in. The gown, in fact, surpassed all his wildest imaginings; the buttons down the front of the skirt recalled his old dress uniform, while the bodice was markedly feminine, trim at the waist with a low-cut neckline. He sighed, feeling the delicate lace between his fingers. Would it even fit him? It was difficult to picture himself squeezed into the dress, but when he did, he liked what he saw. He thought of his shoulders exposed over the low vee at the chest, the skirt brushing his hips as he turned before the mirror.

A wedding dress of his own. He troubled a bow at the sleeve and his ring—Francis’ ring—caught the light. _Mrs. Crozier_. The thought made him giddy, and he laughed aloud, taking the dress into his hands now and drawing it to his chest, pressing it to his cheek. He held the gown in his arms as if it were Francis, half wanting to dance it around the room in his absence. _Oh, Francis_ , James thought, _you incredible man_.

Before the floor-length mirror, James turned the dress, held it against his body to appraise how he might look in it. Well—he would always be a man in a woman’s dress, but he would be _Francis’_ , and that was what mattered. He could see the gray hairs at his temples, the long lines that extended from the corners of his eyes and that carved his forehead like a mountain range. He was not as handsome as he had once been, and that nagged at him. The illness had stolen years from him, and when he looked at himself, he did not always like what he saw. But now, modelling the gown for himself like a young girl for her mother, he saw the possibility of being something new: beautiful.

He was desperate to try it on, but items yet remained in the box. With a mix of reluctance and excitement, James returned the gown to its place on the bed and pulled a set of plain cotton skirts of various weights from the package. A lifetime of shipboard theatricals had made these familiar to him—petticoats that would mold him to the silhouette of the dress, enhancing the lines of his hips and waist to make them into something more lovely. He smiled and set them aside, charmed by Francis’ thoroughness.

Next, he found a pair of rolled silk stockings, white as whalebone. They were simple but luxurious, and with the lace and ribbon garters wrapped around them, they would make his legs shapely, slim, soft. Finally, there were shoes in ivory silk, with ribbons he would tie around his ankles as if he were a ballerina. He began to imagine the whole ensemble taking shape around him, layer upon layer of weight hanging on his body—a body that, not so long ago, he had been sure would not survive. But, no—he was alive, he was breathing, his heart was beating, and Francis Crozier was his husband, and he was Francis’ Crozier’s wife.

Francis had outdone himself. Part of James wondered, _Christ, do we have the money for this?_ But a much larger part of him was tender at the thought of Francis going to all this trouble, choosing such a stunning dress and all its accoutrements, hoarding it away until this very day. And, as James began to unbutton his own waistcoat, a realization settled over him—Francis had been wearing a cream waistcoat when he’d left for town, perhaps not this exact same hue but close, not far from the color a groom might wear to his wedding.

It was terribly romantic. James undressed quickly, hardly able to take his eyes off the gown as he did. He worried that his body, with all its wrong proportions and sharp edges, would not fit within the dress, or worse, that he might damage it, ruin this beautiful thing Francis had given him. He wanted to be perfect for Francis.

Bare in their bedroom, aureate light fell over James’ skin, the floor, the bed, the dress. It filled up the room like honey, casting everything in shades of gold, so thick James thought he might lap it up. He gathered his clothes and folded them, put them away, then shaved, touching up here and there where stubble was beginning to poke through. The dress demanded smoothness, and so he molded himself as best he could. His jaw, he thought, was too angular, and his nose was unpleasantly sharp, and though many men had once called him handsome, he did not think of himself as that now. To Francis, he had always been _darling_ or _lovely_ or _gorgeous_ or, once, _bewitching_ —words men had never used for him before, words he might have previously balked at.

As he washed, he observed himself in the mirror. The shift of his muscles was strange to him. This body was at once his and not his—it had been wasted by the scurvy, eaten away, returned to him battered and broken. He was forced to make do. In slow, thorough strokes, repetitive movements that took on the air of meditation, James washed himself. He would be clean and new; he would be his best possible self. His fingers lingered at the hollow of his neck, traced a collarbone, massaged away an ache at the joint of his shoulder. Though he felt inadequate and on some level undeserving of the beauty that awaited him, he told himself what he knew to be true: that Francis loved this battered, broken body, and that Francis loved _him_. He heard Francis’ voice in his mind, quiet but reassuring, saying, _I have you, James, I’m here_.

He dried his skin with a clean cloth, then, satisfied, surveyed the pieces of clothing before him. This, he knew, was the real gift: wearing each piece, feeling it on his skin, making himself into Mrs. Crozier. There was something exciting about the idea of watching himself transform, so, following a whim, he dragged the armchair from the corner to a spot in front of the mirror.

For a moment, he merely sat there, taking in the sensations of the fabric, the floor beneath his feet, the sight of his body. James poked at his soft round middle and decided he liked it; he had always been comforted by the swell of Francis’ belly, the warmth and weight that enveloped him when Francis collapsed on top of him after sex. Francis’ softness was good, and so, perhaps, was James’. He watched his hands travel over his mirror-self’s torso, cupping the scar under his breast, grazing the small brown nipples, sighing as they tautened. His heartbeat was slow, measured—it did not betray the anxiety that he felt. In the mirror, he was charting the slope of his throat, his fingertips lingering at his lips.

This set off a heat in him like water beginning to boil. It was slow, and it was not yet very strong, but there at the center of him was a little flame. He nurtured it with touch, gazing at himself all the while. This was not vanity on James’ part, though he might have called it that himself. For the first time, he mapped his body, this body that Francis so dearly cherished despite all of James’ protestations and confusion. He felt the divots of scars and the once-hard planes of muscle; he touched the gentle inner thigh and the tender behind the knee; he loved the strange aging face and the brittle silvering hair. Curious, how you could live in a body without really knowing it—how the hidden places remained hidden until someone revealed them to you, or until you went searching for them.

James stood again, approaching the bed to collect the stockings and garters. He caught sight of himself in the mirror as he turned, and he was proud of the particular bend of his back and the curve of his arse. He had looked at himself many times before, to determine the extent of his wounds or inspect a bruise. But he had never taken the time to _see_ himself, or at least not like this. He tried to see what Francis saw, wanted to believe that he could be something more than a blade or a bullet.

As he bent to roll on a stocking, leg extended and toes pointed, he admired his hands and fingers, tough and calloused though they were. He pulled the stocking on slowly, the light hairs on his shins bristling as he did. A shiver crawled up his body. The silk against his flesh was a new feeling; he had touched silk before, certainly, but this was different. He watched the stockinette as it stretched over his calf, accommodating his form despite its size and shape. The stocking easily enveloped the knob of his knee, stopping halfway up his thigh. James placed his palm over the top of the stocking, skin beneath the heel of his hand and satin under his fingers.

At once he felt small and delicate, contained by something so insubstantial as woven silk. He had half thought it might begin to unravel as soon as he pulled it on, or that he would clumsily tear holes in the fragile fabric and destroy something wonderful. But the stocking fit his leg as if it were made for him. He turned in his seat slightly, again lifting his leg out in front of him. Reflected in the mirror was a strange scene: a man naked but for a single stocking, posing as if for a lewd image to be sold in the window of a grimy bookshop on Holywell Street. And though the scene was strange, he was not repulsed by it. He ran a firm hand under his stockinged calf, the tickle of his fingers heightened even through the fabric, and he wiggled his toes, seeing himself smiling.

Yes. This would do. He repeated the process with the second stocking, just as unhurried as before, luxuriating. He drew the stocking very slowly up his leg, his knuckles brushing over the satin as he did. It was soothing, somehow, to watch the stocking unroll, his pale skin made paler, smoother, more beautiful. Next, he took the garters—elegant little things, each one a toss of ribbon and lace—and tied them just below his knees. Crossing end over end, he imagined himself as a gift for Francis to unwrap, just as he himself had so tentatively and carefully opened the box Francis had given him.

He touched each knee, checked the bow of each garter, adjusted the hem of each stocking, and then, rising, he turned slowly before the mirror. “Oh,” he said, more an exhalation than a word, his mouth perfectly round. That flame in him was stronger now, and again, he felt compelled to feed it. In his chest there was a fear and a yearning, the two emotions inseparable from one another. He was afraid of this, the pleasure he felt upon seeing himself bedecked in feminine things. But, just as strongly, he wanted more—he pressed his hands to his sides, at the bottom of his ribs, and imagined himself corseted. He wondered, would it hurt? Would it be like when he had been ill, when breathing itself had been a fight? Or would it feel like a baptism, a christening, a resurrection?

With slow fingers, James followed the pliable curvatures of his body. He had always thought of himself as a collection of angles, all sharp points and corners, but he was beginning to realize there was more to him than that. He traced the gentle arc of his ribs around to the concave small of his back, swept over the supple flesh of his arse and thighs, pressed again into the soft layer of fat at his stomach that reminded him that he was safe and loved and happy.

He took the shoes from the bed and slipped his peculiar new feet into them. Even these were different, almost structureless in themselves—more silk and more ribbon with which to ornament himself. The repetitive act of wrapping the ribbons—first over his foot, then around the ankle, finally secured in a bow—felt almost ritualistic. It was not unlike preparing his dress uniform, ensuring every crease was ironed out, every bit of lint plucked away, every button secured. His uniform had been how he made himself real. It was frightening to think that this gown might have the same effect.

The man he saw reflected before him was—he struggled for the word— _captivating_. Yes, that felt right. Captivating in that James could not take his eyes off of himself. For once, he was unbothered by his scars, the lines on his face, even his overeager cock, already shamelessly hard and begging. Though he wanted to, he did not palm at himself—he would play the bride waiting for her wedding night and save that for Francis.

This is not to say that the urge dissipated. It was entirely possible that, when he settled the first petticoat around his naked waist, he sighed as cotton-wrapped cord skimmed over him. It was possible, even, that James let out a low little noise of want, a sob that transformed itself into a sound of surprise at seeing how instantly the petticoat had reshaped him. Even without a corset, the single petticoat had the effect of narrowing James’ waist, suddenly stinging it into a woman’s shape as the skirt belled around his legs. He twisted his hips this way and that, watching how the skirt moved around him.

It was magnificent. For a few long moments, he merely turned back and forth in front of the mirror to observe, over and over, the swish of the skirt as calming as waves crashing on the shore. He repeated this process a second and then a third time—pulling the petticoat down over himself, fastening it, and then turning, pleased at the new volume of the skirts and their movement, beguiled by the sight of himself as someone else.

All that was left was the dress itself. It lay on the bed where James had left it, spread there like a shed skin. He had worn dresses before, of course; he had lost count of how many times he had played a woman in ridiculous theatricals put on at sea. But this was different. This was not a costume; he was playing no character but himself. As the first time Francis had called him _Mrs. Crozier_ had transformed him, shifted something inside him into place, so too would the act of putting on the gown.

He approached it with some trepidation, touching the buttons that laddered up the front of the dress. He imagined the seamstress who had sewn them, perhaps with arthritic knuckles and an aching back, carefully arranging each piece of tuile, the precise position of every button and bit of braid. What would she think, he wondered, if she knew who would end up wearing it? He wanted to assure her that he appreciated her handiwork, that he found every single stitch beautifully, perfectly placed. That—though he was no _conventional_ bride—he treasured this thing she’d created, poured weeks or maybe months of her time into making. To James, the garment was almost sacred, as hallowed as a priest’s surplice and chasuble, and he wanted to honor it.

There are moments in a man’s life when he is asked to make a choice from which there is no returning. James knew, deep in his soul, that this was one of those moments, and that when he saw himself reflected, swaddled in satin and silk and lace and ribbon, a key would turn, opening a new path just as surely as it locked another behind him. For this reason, he was afraid, struck dumb as if in the presence of the divine, but he gathered his courage and leapt.

With trembling fingers, he undid the fasteners at the back of the dress. There was a bow at the bottom of the bodice—James expected it would fall neatly over the small of his back—and he thought of Francis’ sturdy hand holding there, grounding him. James _missed_ Francis, even in the short time he’d been gone; he yearned for Francis’ strong arms and gap-toothed smile. Though watching himself dress had been so satisfying, he wished Francis could see this, could help him with the heavy gown and the hooks he wouldn’t be able to reach and could tell him that he looked beautiful.

For now, James made things work as best he could. He lifted the gown over his head and inserted his arms into the delicate sleeves, careful of the lace and net. The sleeves were tight at the forearm but not constricting—it was, in a word, comfortable. James tugged the skirt down over his petticoats and smoothed his hands over the fabric. Even with the back left open, the bodice sculpted his waist. What had once been a straight line was now drawn-in, and he longed to feel the press of the bodice against him on all sides once it was fastened. Finally, James settled the gown over his shoulders, adjusting so the sweep of his chest and neck and collarbone was perfectly even on each side, and joined the very top hook to its matching eyelet, leaving the rest of the back open. The others would have to wait until Francis arrived.

Before he allowed himself to look in the mirror, James pushed the armchair back into the corner. He needed the space to move, knew he would want to stretch out his arms and feel every sensation. The idea of seeing the finished product was nerve-wracking. He worried that he would look in the mirror and find something grotesque staring back at him, a monster that belonged in an institution or worse. But as he moved the armchair back into its place, he thought that he had never been more certain that something was right.

James closed his eyes and drew in a breath that filled up his whole being. When he exhaled, he swore he would rid himself of fear, of doubt, of ugliness—of everything that was not love and joy and beauty. It was with those words on his tongue, _love_ and _joy_ and _beauty_ , that he stepped in front of the mirror.

The picture was not perfect. His eyes were drawn to the little imperfections—the places where the neckline bowed, the inconsistent shape of his waist, all small things which would no doubt be fixed by simply closing the back of the dress. But as he reminded himself— _love_ and _joy_ and _beauty_ —the image came into clearer focus. The gown, in all senses, fit him perfectly. The bodice had the effect of further elongating his body, as did the bell-like shapes of the upper sleeve and the full skirt. His body was sculpted into classical curves, all his sharp corners smoothed away. Put simply, it was like a dream: James Fitzjames made ethereal, otherworldly, lovely.

He could not say why, but tears came to his eyes, and as he surged toward the mirror, he met it with an outstretched hand, coming fingertip to fingertip with himself in the glass. James could scarcely believe it was himself, but watching this strange new creature in the mirror, he realized—he was beautiful. He was Francis’, and he was beautiful.

James found himself unable to move, transfixed by his own reflection. _Vanity_ , he would have said again, but this was something far different. He realized as he looked at himself that, for these two months of being married to Francis, he had held a vision of himself in his mind that he believed could never be real. _Mrs. Crozier_ had only ever been two desperate men’s fantasy. Yet here _Mrs. Crozier_ was, in the flesh. Francis had done something like a miracle: revealed the possibility that had existed within James all along.

As James pressed his palm to the mirror, the gravity of this change washing over him, the front door of their little house opened. James jolted, wanting both to surprise and to greet Francis, settling ultimately for standing just outside their bedroom and trying to conceal that he’d been crying. Francis carried a nosegay of flowers—orange blossoms and myrtles and lilies, all brilliant white—and had pinned a matching spray of blossoms to his lapel. James felt as though his heart might burst, so full was it with affection for Francis.

Try as he might, he could no longer restrain himself, and he crossed the room to Francis, who appeared momentarily stunned. James moved slowly, savoring every aspect of this—the scent of orange blossoms filling the room, the dress shifting around him as he walked, the awed expression on Francis’ face. Beneath the layers of skirt and petticoats, James felt the stockings stretching with his muscles, as if in tune with his body.

“Good Christ,” Francis murmured when James stood before him. “Look at you.”

James noticed that Francis was clutching the flowers like a lifeline, gripping so tightly his knuckles were white. He gentled the nosegay from Francis’ hand and breathed in deeply of it—so sweet it was almost overwhelming. “You must help me with the back,” he said. His voice wavered minutely.

Anyone else would not have noticed it, but Francis did. He laid his fingers on James’ bare shoulder, traced down the shelf of his collarbone. Francis’ touch was light, tentative—he was holding back. “Look at you,” he said again, thumb sweeping over the hollow of James’ throat. Francis’ face softened, its well-worn lines as familiar and beloved by James as those of an old map. “My bride.”

The words swallowed James up, _my bride_ , made him feel drunk on something he couldn’t name. Francis was moving, then, shifting to James’ side and turning him just so. James felt Francis’ fingers at his back, clumsy but loving, unhooking the top clasp and starting at the base of the bodice. “Thank you,” James said, Francis’ breath hot on the nape of his neck.

Francis pulled the fabric tight around James and began the tedious process of fastening the dress. James liked the way the bodice constricted around him, how it made him feel bound-up and small and overflowing. His breath caught, once, out of either excitement or shock at the sudden, sweet vise of the bodice. Francis, for his part, stilled immediately, and said James’ name with an edge to his voice that James had not heard since the Arctic.

“Well, don’t stop, darling,” James said. He smiled, but Francis’ response was momentary silence, a cipher that set James on edge.

“Is it hurting you?” Francis said, stroking a soothing hand down James’ side.

But James merely shook his head and let himself lean back against Francis’s sturdy chest, into his encircling arms. “No,” James said. “I—it’s good. It’s perfect.”

Francis mouthed at the crook of James’ neck, wet and warm. This—this was what James had wanted. He was content to languidly give himself over to Francis, this man he loved more than anything, and would let Francis do what he liked. He felt, suddenly, the gentle but unmistakable nip of teeth, playful, and there was a new energy in Francis’ hands as he did up the rest of the dress. “There,” Francis said.

James tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear, clutched the nosegay to his chest, and turned once again to face Francis, who was by this point grinning fully. There was a gleam in Francis’ eyes that James had come to love—one he’d previously associated with anger that he now recognized as passion. And as Francis took him in, hunger playing at his lips, James did the same. Something about the light, the way it seemed to spill over Francis like liquid gold, made every detail sharper and sweeter. Francis’ shirtsleeves billowed around his arms; the waistcoat with its pattern of leaves and blossoms made him trim and sharp at the middle; the trousers were fine, soft doeskin that flattered his legs. He was, well—impossibly handsome, James thought. He might struggle to believe Francis were real if not for the scent of orange blossom that pervaded the room even now.

“How does Mrs. Crozier like the gown?” Francis asked, extending a hand to James as if asking for a dance. He reached to take it, and Francis pressed James’ knuckles to his lips. Stubble rubbed against James’ skin as Francis nuzzled James’ hand.

“Mrs. Crozier likes it very much indeed,” James said, and, in a flash of caprice, pulled Francis toward him and kissed him as if it were the first time, as if they had been chaste young lovers who had courted for many months and dreamt of one another’s lips, hands, bodies—they _had_ done that, when they had not yet named what was between them; they had pined and yearned and wanted, never allowing themselves to hope for something real. But they were older now, and it had been a good many years since either of them were very young, and they knew each other’s bodies intimately, perhaps better than each man knew his own. So the kiss was, in itself, a paradox—both old and new, both familiar and strange, both a comfort and a catalyst.

Kissing Francis like this, feeling the sturdy press of Francis’ fingers over the layers and layers of fabric, James once again felt transformed. It was one thing to see yourself, but being seen by another person was something different entirely. But James needn’t have worried, for Francis saw him then with the same clarity that had come in their final days on the expedition, without shame or judgment or fear. Whatever anxieties had lingered, whatever apprehensions James had held onto, vanished in Francis’ hands, his mouth, his whispered affirmation: _Christ, I love you_.

Suddenly Francis was bending, and James was being swept up, lifted from the ground and held in Francis’ arms, a pietà of joy and laughter and petticoats. The bouquet tumbled from James’ hand, and though he reached for it, Francis was already moving, holding James tighter, looking at him with such great devotion that James felt almost lost. He clung to Francis, tried to express some concern for Francis’ back (it troubled him, now and then, old pains flaring up in the cold or the rain), but Francis shushed him. He settled for resting his head against Francis’ chest, listening to the rambunctious beat of Francis’ heart, and idly petting the tapered hair at the nape of Francis’ neck.

“You’re too bloody long,” Francis said, angling James through their bedroom door. Francis’ brow was furrowed, set determinedly. His seriousness amused James, and he stifled a laugh, though he could not hold back the smile that spread across his face. This man, this thoughtful and kind and loving man—James was his, and he was James’, by right of the ring on his finger and the dress on his body and the words they had shared. They were married, and that was that.

Francis kicked the bedroom door shut behind them and, leaning in for another kiss, lowered James to the bed, careful of the dress and its many delicate layers. “Francis,” James murmured, lips brushing against Francis’, “thank you.” He lay back against the pillows and sprawled over the bed in a terribly unladylike fashion, sighing dreamily. Francis was standing over him, the orange blossom on his lapel now looking a little worse for wear. But Francis was beaming, and he stroked James’ cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“My beautiful bride,” Francis said. After slipping off his shoes, he sat beside James, who reached for him, wanting to hold _something_ , wanting some part of Francis in his hands. He settled for tracing the fine stitching of Francis’ waistcoat, following its stiff folds, the stems of the flowers that adorned the glossy fabric. Francis drew a thumb over James’ cheek. He paused before he spoke, pink tongue flicking snakelike over an incisor. “My wife,” he said, and when James made a little satisfied sound, Francis said it again: “My wife.”

As it had the first time, the very word made James feel embodied. Bound up in a gown he scarcely could have imagined, next to the man he loved, a ring on his finger and pure rapture in his heart, James wanted nothing but more of the same. He didn’t know how to communicate this to Francis; _thank you_ hardly seemed like enough. But what else could he say? He was only beginning to make sense of this himself. Francis was watching him closely, his eyes the precise color of the sky just before sunrise, and because Francis was kind and good and full of compassion, James knew he would soon ask what was the matter, so James spoke without hampering himself, without thinking at all.

“Thank you for all this,” he said, searching for Francis’ hand, clutching tight when he found it. “Francis, I—no one has ever—“ He swallowed his words. It was hopeless. “You don’t know what you’ve done for me,” he said. He shut his eyes, willed the sting of tears to subside before Francis saw.

“Oh, James,” Francis said. There was a new tenderness in his tone that made James want to sob. “You deserve everything, _everything_ you desire.”

James didn’t respond.

“Do you hear?” Francis asked, squeezing James’ hand. “Everything. I only wish I could give you more.”

Francis was looking at him, then, almost distressed. James knew this look from long ago—when he had been dying, when Francis had been at his side. _Tell me what you want,_ Francis had said. _What you feel._ He’d wanted to be held, and he had said so, and he had wept into Francis’ arms and, with his little remaining strength, admitted to Francis that he was afraid to die. This was not the same—James was gloriously alive, but that was the trouble of it. How to say to Francis, _I’ve never been happier than this_? He struggled for words, sound catching in his throat.

Now, as he had in the Arctic, Francis posed a challenge: “Tell me what you want,” he said, husky-voiced. “Hm? What _Mrs. Crozier_ wants.”

James’ fingers were trembling. He reached for the buttons of Francis’ waistcoat and, timid, slipped the first through its hole. When Francis did not stop him, he continued, plucking at each button until the waistcoat hung open around Francis. Under the petticoats, James’ cock was twitching again, fluttering against the cotton. He stammered when he spoke. “I want—I want more of this. Of you. That’s all.”

Francis laughed—James’ favorite sound. Then Francis was shrugging off his waistcoat, tossing it to the side of the bed, careless. James willed his own hands to move faster, more nimbly, while he tugged at Francis’ shirt. He wanted skin on skin, the familiar fullness of Francis inside him, Francis’ weight pressing down on him, his face buried in the crook of Francis’ neck as he fell apart. And Francis wanted this, too, if the conspicuous shape of his trousers was any indication, but Francis held back, teasing, staying just out of reach. “Please,” James whined, plaintive.

“We needn’t rush, love,” Francis was saying, circling a single finger over the soft inside of James’ wrist, beneath the lace at the end of the sleeve. “We have time.”

Now Francis kissed at the place his finger had been, lips plush against the sensitive skin, the knob of bone. With every press of Francis’ mouth, James felt more and more cherished. In Francis’ hands, he was a precious heirloom—perhaps an old and tattered thing, but loved, and beautiful for having been loved.

But despite himself, James wanted more. He couldn’t help it; Francis had this effect on him. With Francis he was always greedy, a hungry child stuffing himself with sweets long past the point of satisfaction, happy to give himself a bellyache in the pursuit of pleasure. “Will you say it again?” James asked, Francis kissing up his forearm, over the lace and net.

A devious smile creased Francis’ cheeks. “Say _what_ again?”

James huffed. “You know.” He pulled at the hem of Francis’ shirt with his free hand, untucking it from Francis’ trousers. Sliding his hand beneath the shirt, he felt Francis’ soft flesh, the fine golden hairs that covered his belly and chest. James thumbed lightly at a nipple and felt Francis quiver.

“Hmm,” Francis said. He was pulling off his shirt, then, and James reached desperately for him. But Francis remained stoic. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, a smirk twisting his lips.

“ _Mrs. Crozier_ ,” James sighed. Even hearing _himself_ say it made him shudder. “Please.”

And Francis’ mouth was on his, ravenous, and the crush of bodice and Francis’ body on his was good, was right, was all he wanted. He splayed his hands over Francis’ shoulder blades, gasped at the way Francis ground against him, accepted the exploratory tongue, the hands twisting in his hair. When they pulled apart, even minutely, Francis said the name against James’ lips, _Mrs. Crozier_ , before kissing hungrily again. James was despondent; he wanted more, wanted Francis to take him in hand or in mouth, to give him the friction he needed. He pleaded when Francis drew back, begged, “Please, Francis,” but Francis was just out of reach, moving to the foot of the bed.

Francis’ face was flushed deep red, and there was sweat on his chest, his forehead, that James thought of licking away. He knew how Francis would taste—like seawater in his mouth, like home. Francis stood, and James saw that he was, again, being looked over, devoured by Francis’ eyes.

“Mrs. Crozier,” Francis said, “you look positively debauched.” He touched James’ ankle, the top of his foot, and James pointed his toes reflexively. Francis’ words still rattled through him—he could only imagine the state of his hair, not to mention the rumpled dress. But he found that he didn’t mind, that he still felt fresh and new and beautiful under Francis’ piercing gaze. He took the mass of his skirt in hand and tugged it upward, just enough to reveal the lacy garters that were tied under his knees and the full extent of the ribbons that secured his shoes. “But so lovely,” Francis said, untying the bows at James’ ankles and slipping off his shoes.

James sighed and let himself drift. Francis was leaning down, kissing James’ knee and stroking the underside of his calf. He liked to be held by Francis; he never felt safer than when he was in Francis’ hands. “You spoil me,” James said.

“Is that not a husband’s job?” He drew two feather-light fingers up the arch of James’ foot, a little tickling touch that made James squirm. “Pull your skirts up for me, my love,” Francis instructed, and James obeyed. He exposed his milk-white thighs, the tops of his stockings, but, feeling coquettish, left the skirts gathered over his cock. It was only right, after all, given Francis’ teasing.

A question came to mind, suddenly, as Francis gently eased James’ legs apart. “Do you like seeing me like this?” James asked. His voice was small, perhaps a bit nervous. He feared the answer—it was easy for him to tell, now, when Francis wasn’t being truthful.

Francis straightened his back. “James,” he said. “You know the answer to that.”

He did, but—it was more complicated than that. Yes, James knew that Francis loved him no matter what, that Francis had loved him at the end of the world and every day since. He knew that, though they had never spoken any such vows, the old words held true: for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, in health. James had never doubted that. What he wanted to ask was _do you worry what this might say about me?_ And _do you love me_ despite _this?_ And _when you call me beautiful, is that really true?_ Again, he could not make himself form the words. He swallowed hard, shut his eyes, regretted having asked at all.

There was a long silence.

“What does it feel like when I call you _Mrs. Crozier_?” Francis finally said. “Would you tell me?”

James blinked. He felt rather ridiculous—too wrapped up in his own thoughts for what was supposed to be a nice evening, a celebration of themselves. He was the one who had mucked it up by thinking too deeply, feeling too much. They were play-acting; the dress was a costume, Mrs. Crozier merely his role for the night. That was all.

But when he looked at Francis—Francis and his open, round face, pale and bright as the moon; Francis and his cornsilk hair that only became more beautiful as it was threaded through with silver; Francis and the marks on his skin, circles and lines and divots and ridges, marks he hated that James treasured so dearly—James saw that there was real concern in his eyes. The question was not a question asked merely to make James feel better; it was asked because Francis wanted to know, because this was important to him, because _James_ was important to him.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” James said. Which wasn’t exactly true—more accurately, he was afraid of sounding silly, or worse, of sounding altogether too serious, too deeply invested.

“Perhaps you could start with your gown,” Francis said, running his fingers over the hem of a petticoat. “How you felt getting dressed.”

James turned this idea over in his head a few times. That did seem an easier place to start. “All right,” he said.

There was still a great worry in him that he would not be able to communicate the depth of his feelings, how he felt that putting this gown on had shifted something inside him. But Francis took James’ hand and drew it to his lips, kissed his knuckles and fingertips. “I love you,” Francis said. “You won’t scare me away.”

And so, without ceasing, without allowing himself to think or hesitate, James spoke. He told Francis how he’d touched his own body, learning it for the first time, how, even before he put on the dress or the petticoats or the stockings, he had felt right and loved and happy. James told him about stretching the stockings over his legs and seeing that he might be beautiful; he told Francis how, at first, the person in the mirror did not even look like himself but like some other creature, and that he had watched his mirror-self be consumed by joy and felt that joy consuming him, too, and that he had pressed his hand to the cool, polished surface of the mirror and realized: _that’s me_.

Francis did not interrupt. He asked no questions, made no remarks. While James spoke, Francis moved slowly, touching and kissing the vulnerable skin of James’ thighs. Each kiss was deliberate, starting just above the hem of the stocking and stretching all the way up to the tender, innermost part of James, where the flesh was worn velvet soft and sensitive. Francis’ breath was wet and hot, and James might have begged for more if he had not been pouring himself out already.

Without ceremony, Francis lowered himself, prone on the bed with his face close between James’ legs. The skirts and petticoats, hitched up though they were, still brushed against Francis’ face. James longed to see Francis like this, and he pushed himself up on his elbows in an attempt to better observe the reflection in the mirror. He fell silent at the sight of Francis prostrate before him, penitent and devoted. He wanted to stroke Francis’ saintly head, but James feared that disturbing any of the delicate pieces in place would make the whole of it fall apart. So he gaped, paralyzed, feeling once again as if this truly were their wedding night, he an untouched, chaste young thing ready to give himself over to Francis.

“Go on,” Francis said, quiet. “Tell me how it makes you feel when I call you _Mrs. Crozier_.”

James let out a low sigh, and Francis seemed to take that as a signal to continue. He pushed James’ legs back slightly, his hands strong and firm on the underside of James’ thighs. James’ cock was bitterly hard now—James wanted more, wanted _anything_ to rut into or against. That fire that had burned within him was now a house aflame, the blaze spreading from room to room as it ate up everything in its sight.

He started. “It makes me feel—“

A light, searching swipe of tongue at the cleft of his arse.

James jolted. “Francis!”

Francis lifted his head. “Did I hurt you?”

James gave an incredulous, dry laugh. “How do you expect me to—to speak _eloquently_ on my _feelings_ if you’re—“

“It doesn’t have to be eloquent.” Francis grinned.

James groaned. “Absolutely incorrigible.”

“Perhaps,” Francis shrugged. “Will you try?” He looked up at James, suppliant, eyes wide and longing, then, in his most prayerful voice, entreated James: “Please, Mrs. Crozier.”

When Francis had his heart set on something, it was no use trying to convince him otherwise. So James waved him on, and as Francis sucked at James’ inner thigh, he began again. “It feels like—when we were being rescued.”

Francis made a small sympathetic sound, licking the delicate stretch of skin behind James’ balls. James took a sharp breath in, an act made more difficult by the tight bodice around him, but somehow that made it more satisfying. Then, the quivering exhale as Francis’ tongue trailed lower, teasing at him.

Words tumbled out of James’ mouth; he was unsure if they made sense and entirely too preoccupied to care. “Like when we were being rescued and I realized I might live.” A gasp as Francis bent his legs back further, settling his hands in the crooks of James’ knees. James’ stockinged feet bobbed in the air when Francis pressed his tongue flat over James’ entrance. James spoke again, his words punctuated with sighs and moans, Francis sweeping his tongue in circles around him. “Hopeful, and, _God_ , safe and watched-over. That even if I don’t know it yet, I might have a purpose. Or that maybe my purpose is to—to belong to you.”

Then Francis’ tongue was pushing into him, spreading him open. Francis held him down as his hips bucked, fucking into James with his tongue, Francis’ face buried in these depths of James’ body, fearless. When they had started all of this, Francis was hesitant but determined, unsure of how best to use his mouth. He stopped too often to ask for validation, and James took to pressing his head down, a sign to continue, that all was well. But now, Francis was confident, and the loud, liquid sound of his zealous mouth mingled with James’ exhalations, the whimpers and sobs and yelps that James no longer tried to conceal.

“Francis,” he begged, “ _Christ_ , please.” His hand fell over his face as Francis withdrew momentarily.

“Go on,” Francis said. He pressed at James’ entrance with a thumb, and James writhed desperately. “I want to know more.” James moaned in protest. His cock leaked onto the petticoats. He made a halfhearted attempt to reach for himself, but the sheer volume of skirts made it a nearly impossible task. Regardless, Francis pushed his hands away, said, “I’ll take care of that when I’m ready.”

James covered his face while he spoke, and Francis again went to work with his tongue, slower this time, drawing out every single sensation. “It makes me feel whole. Like it’s what I’ve— _ah_ —always been searching for. I—don’t know what it says about me, but— _fuck_ —it’s, it’s what I want to be. Who I want to be. _Francis_ —I want to be Mrs. Crozier—that’s all, I—I want to be yours.”

These words he repeated over and over while Francis continued to wreck him: _I want to be yours. I want to be yours. I want to be yours._ They became a lament, a plaintive, howling thing that devolved into pure sound.

And then, just as suddenly as this had all started, Francis was pulling away. James tried without success to pull Francis back down, but it was no use; James was empty, his arse dripping with Francis’ spit. Francis was standing again, making quick work of the buttons of his trousers, letting them fall to the floor. James saw, then, how hard Francis was, his cock proud and stiff, and James wanted to be run through.

“My gown,” James begged. “I can’t undo it on my own.”

Francis scoffed. “Now, Mrs. Crozier, don’t be ridiculous.” He fumbled in the drawer for the tin of grease, and James watched, hungry, as Francis stroked himself. “I want you to wear it.”

“Oh,” James said.

The thought excited him, energized him. Francis laid down next to him, still lazily stroking his cock, and James seized upon him, kissing him with such fervor that Francis seemed startled. “I love you,” James said. “My dear husband.”

“My bride,” Francis said, stroking a still-greased finger over James’ cheek. “My James.”

Carefully, James took up his skirts again and hitched them around his hips as he straddled Francis. He was on his knees, legs folded against each side of Francis’ torso, and Francis’ stomach rose and fell with each heaving breath. Then James dropped the skirts, smoothing them down around him. The voluminous dress fell over them, covering much of Francis’ body, enveloping the two of them in silk, satin, lace—beautiful things, soft things.

Beneath the skirts, Francis held his cock at James’ entrance—not pushing, not moving, just waiting for James. And James, trusting, lifted himself, arched his back and sank down onto Francis, taking all of him in at once, a single fluid motion. They both groaned at this, but once he was seated with Francis firmly inside him, James was still. Francis was lost, gripping James’ arse with firm hands. “James,” Francis murmured. “Good _God_.”

James did not want to move yet—did not want to end all of this. He leaned forward just so and pressed his palms to Francis’ chest. “Do you like me like this?” James asked again. He wanted to hear Francis say it, wanted to watch Francis’ lips form the words.

“Of course I do,” Francis said. He thumbed the soft hollow of James’ hip. “Nothing will stop me loving you, James. Certainly not something as beautiful as this is. As you are.”

James’ muscles clenched around Francis’ cock and Francis grunted. Slowly, slowly, James rolled his hips, Francis’ cock deep in him. Francis thrusted up into him, and James felt like he was being cracked open, poured out. A forest fire of joy and desire flared within him, kindled by Francis’ hands. It threatened to consume him, to scorch his skin—he didn’t care. Francis stoked these flames, repeating something James at first could not understand. As Francis fucked him, split him in two, and grew louder, the words became clearer: _You’re mine._ Over and over Francis said this. _You’re mine. You’re mine._ And James gave himself, wanting to respond but not finding the words. He sensed that Francis didn’t need him to say anything—that possibly Francis just needed him to _hear_ it, to know that it was true.

Finally, blessedly, Francis took James’ cock in his hand. What happened beneath James’ skirts took on an air of the sacred, as if that dark space were the Holy of Holies, James a lamb sacrificed on the mercy seat of Francis’ body. “There, now,” Francis said. His voice wavered; he was close. “Is this what you want?”

James nodded. He did not trust himself to form words. He wanted Francis to wring him out, to leave him empty, just as much as he wanted Francis to finish inside him, filling him up from within. All of this was paradoxical—thinking of this as holy when it was expressly forbidden; wanting to be empty and filled at the same time; being both husband and wife, Fitzjames and Crozier. But he contained all of these contradictions; within him and through Francis, they could exist together. James could not explain how or why, but they did. And that, for him, was enough—merely to _be_ , and to _be_ with Francis, to hold all of these things at once and not need to make sense of them. Francis would not ask questions; Francis would just love him, and he would love Francis just the same.

It was this thought, James supposed, that made them fall into sync, their bodies connected, pushing and pulling, inhaling and exhaling. James was saying _Francis,_ and all the muscles in his body were tightening, his thighs clenching, toes curling inside his stockings, and Francis was moving in long, deliberate strokes, begging James, _for me, darling, please, won’t you_. Then James unraveled, spilled himself in Francis’ hand and on the petticoats and over the soft hill of Francis’ belly. Francis was quick after that, squeezing James’ arse, spasming into James as he spent, breathing, _oh, James,_ and groaning, shaking, collapsing.

They were still, after that, panting, sweat and spend drying on their skin. James was unbearably hot, the dress stuck to him and weighing him down, but he did not want to move—he had never felt closer to Francis, more loved or more useful or more himself than this moment. Everything else happened in a haze—there was much rearranging of skirts as Francis cleaned himself, then James, laughing at the state of James’ hair, his own general disarray. Then, just as deliberately as James had dressed himself, Francis undressed him, unhooking the gown, removing the petticoats, carefully untying James’ garters and slipping the stockings from James’ legs.

And though they knew the fabric would wrinkle, though they knew it would be a hassle in the morning, they left the dress in a heap on the floor, tomorrow’s problem. Tomorrow there would be laundry to do, a house to clean, a garden to tend, errands to run. But tonight, they were married. That was all that mattered.

As they curled into one another, legs and fingers entangled, the gravity of what they’d done began to wash over James. They had been married for months—the ring on his finger proved that—but there was a sense that something had changed. For the better, he thought. Francis was idly petting James’ hair, while James rested his head on Francis’ chest, tracing circles on Francis’ stomach.

“James,” Francis said, quiet, hesitant. “Did you mean the things you said about—being called by my name?”

James lifted his head, turned toward Francis. “Yes, Francis, all of it.”

Francis made a low, soft noise. “May I call you that more often?” he asked. He was beginning to smile—that lovely, crooked smile that was only his. James cherished it.

“As often as you please,” James said. “I would like it very much.”

Grinning, Francis pulled James close, kissed his forehead, and spoke, lips moving over James’ skin: “I love you, Mrs. Crozier.” Then, kissing James’ cheek: “Mrs. Crozier.” His nose: “Mrs. Crozier.” Again and again and again, the name like an incantation: _Mrs. Crozier._ And as Francis repeated the name into the night, into the morning, into the days and weeks and years ahead, James knew how he was loved: wholly, deeply, without end.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was largely inspired by [reinetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reinetta)'s lovely fic [starcross](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555883). Big thanks also for putting up with me asking a billion questions, providing excellent resources, and being super encouraging! More thanks to [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille) for allowing me to whine and cheerleading as always, and to my partner for not asking me too many questions.
> 
> [This](http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O166838/wedding-dress-unknown/) is James' wedding dress, and [this](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/159356?searchField=All&sortBy=Relevance&deptids=8&when=A.D.+1800-1900&where=Europe&ft=wedding+vest&offset=0&rpp=20&pos=2) is Francis' waistcoat. 
> 
> I relied heavily on [these](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuuvqFKdyNA&feature=youtu.be) [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2YwzNRa03mo&feature=youtu.be) videos for information on period dress.
> 
> The final scene is, of course, inspired by the ending of Joe Wright's adaptation of _Pride and Prejudice_ , and the title is from this fic's theme song, "Dress" by Taylor Swift.
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/himbodundy) and [Tumblr](https://birdshitisland.tumblr.com/)!


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